The Winner
of 2002-2003 was chosen by Lenny
Knight an award winning poet

Winner
of 2002-2003 Poetry Competition

Thanks
for the opportunity to judge the 2003 Tamworth Rage Page Poetry Competition.

I
am pleased to announce the winner of this years competition as, Merv
Webster, with his poem

'The Loo
[wd] Conversation' Poem Number
26.

Congratulations
Merv & thank you to all the entrants for their great effort this year.

Yours
in Poetry,

Lenny'

Len
Knight

A
LOO [wd] CONVERSATION
(Poem number 26)The sound of country music
rang down town in old Peel street,
While once again I set up camp, amid the throbbing beat
Of guitars, drums and didg'ridoos beside Frank Turton's chooks,
To share with folk my love of verse and sell my tapes and books.

Then strike me pink old nature called, so had to slip away,
And being air-conditioned like Grace Bros. saved the day.
The toilet there was unisex, but thought I was alone,
When to my right I heard a ring ... a flam'in mobile phone.

Some voice then answered, "Campware here. Oh hello Miss
McBride."
When stone the crows ... another ring ... but from my left hand side.
A woman's voice said, "Hosiery, Miss Makim, how'd you do,"
And there I was perched on the throne, caught right between the two.

It's really hard to concentrate with all that in your ear,
In fact I had to come to grips with why I'd come in here.
The conversations going on both had a diff'rent theme,
Which had my mind a wee bit tossed, confusion reigned supreme.

"And do we have some knickers which would match the bras - in
black?"
"Of course they've got the bottoms in and zip up front and back."
"You want some with elastic in, but something that will last.."
"We have a range that slip up quick and come down just as fast."

Then as I heard the cisterns flush, I thought ... hell what a pain;
Transacting business in the loo can really be a drain.
I reached out for some toilet roll to wrap up why I came,
When spare me days 'twas nothing there, but cardboard roll and frame.

What was a bloke to do I thought, I'm stuck here all alone,
When suddenly it crossed my mind ... I'd brought my mobile phone.
I dialled the information line to seek the number out,
Then figured I'd ring toiletry, they'd have some rolls no doubt.

But when I punched the numbers in I heard a ring near by.
That's strange, I thought, then heard a voice say, "Toiletry, it's Di."
"Oh Di," I said, "it's Mervyn here, I'm stuck here in your
store,
I'm in your loo and out of rolls so could you bring some more."

There was a sudden silence for the phone went kind of dead,
But somewhere close I heard a scream as some sweet voice then said,
"Hey Merv I'd like to help you out, but sweetheart this is true,
You see I'm only two doors down and out of paper too."Merv Webster (c)
The Goondiwindi Grey

Tamworth Rage Page
would like to congratulate Merv Webster and also thank all the other
entries.

Hi
my name is Emma Griffith
I have a passion for writing
I feel most at home when I have a pen in my hand
I just want to create something beautiful
I dont know if this poem will appeal to you it is very sad
It is not a true story but there is so much of this sort of thing in the
world now I wanted to reach out and see if writing this could let me see how
terrible the ordeal of this particular event could be.
I want to understand how people feel.
People might think its strange that I wrote something so sad for no reason
but I dont know why I did it but I am proud of it
So i hope you enjoy this poem

GONE!By Emma Griffith 14 years oldYou seemed so far away,
Didn't know what I could say
What did you need to hear,
For you to still be near
Doctors have tried
To define suicide
I still don't get it though
Will I ever really know
What made you do it
I could have helped you get through it
If only.

You weren't so lonely
You'd be laughing with me
I wish I did see
Now I'm so mad
So very very sad
With what has been
And everything I have seen
Everything you ever knew and all you had been taught
Your last words and your last thought
All gone when I saw you lying on he floor
Your whole life shut forever behind that bedroom door
If only.

You weren't so damn lonely
I'd see you here,
You'd still be near
"I'm not insane I just can't go on
I've been confused for so very long "
That's all it said,
That note lying on your bed,
I don't get why you did it,
Who was it I still don't see it.
I thought you were fine
I was yours and you were mine
Things change I know they do
But what was it you couldn't work through

Is it just that teenage depression phase
Is that why you hear of suicide often these days
I don't need time and I don't need space
All I need is to see your face
Goodbye is what I have to say
Not another "Love you" or even a "G'day"

It's
the end now and not the start
I have to help play my part
Look after your dad and your sister
I'll find your mum and tell her you missed her
I'm getting it now
Why, what and how

You're gone because of what she did
She left you when you were a little kid
I didn't realise it hurt you so much inside
Your eyes were dry, you never cried

I'll tell her all the things I know
I'm angry with her and rightly so
My heart is broken; yeah it's true
While it's mending I'll remember you

"Best
wishes do I send
For the loved ones of my boyfriend"
That's the add I put in the paper
I'll keep it forever and read it later

Poem28

In
Victor harbor, South Australia, a group of ageing hasbeens, shouldabeens and
couldabeens, combined with some youthful wannabees and wouldn’tmindtobees
put together a band of dubious ability.

Corella’s
Revenge

There
was a rumour at The Victor,

It
had even reached The Crown,

And
at the Grosvenor they were discussing,

The
newest, musical act in town.

Now
if you take the western out of country,

And
the rock right out of roll,

You
come close to the new genre,

Some
of the pundits would call droll.

It
is this, the very essence,

Of
this new and talented band,

That
is about to unleash its repertoire,

Upon
the Fleurieu of The Great Southland.

When
you have a few good men,

And
quality musicians to boot,

You
can bet that the very first concert,

Is
sure to be a hoot.

The
only thing that may be lacking,

Apart
from ability and style,

Is
being able to hit the same note together,

Every
once and awhile.

Now
for some, music is a crusade,

With
a cause and injustice to avenge.

But
that is just not important,

For
Corella’s Revenge.

If
you have heard a wounded parakeet,

Or
a crow seriously maimed,

That’s
about the choralistic target,

That
Corella’s Revenge has aimed.

Take
the warble out of magpie,

Take
the humming out of bird,

Take
the nighting out of gale,

And
that’s about what’ll be heard.

Corella’s
Revenge came into being,

Because
some men just have to do it,

They
can even turn their able hands,

To
mould a quartet into a duet.

Far
be it for us to tell you all,

How
to judge what you will hear.

But
if you’re all as tone deaf as we are,

None
of us has anything to fear.

There’s
Terry “The Man” Lewitzka,

The
maestro, we think,

Whose
ability and singing improves,

With
each glass of red you drink.

Then
there’s young Johnny “J.R.”,

A
singer extraordinaire,

Who
with the occasional use of two bricks,

Can
get those high notes right up there.

There’s
Murray the mighty Blatchford,

Whose
voice deep and strong,

The
dulcet tones keep reverberating,

While
we do our best to sing along.

There’s
John, the guitarist Freebairn,

Known
as “Freebie” to one and all,

Whose
desire for fame and fortune,

Has
seen him answer the call.

There’s
Colin our master musician,

Who
is fondly referred to as C.W.

He
plays with a desire to do his best,

Too
bad we don’t all take the trouble too!

There’s
Tyson the violinist,

Whose
careful fingers and strings,

To
this band of musical misfits,

A
touch of refinement brings.

There’s
Ian the lanky drummer,

Who
armed with sticks and skins,

Brings
the rhythm and consistency,

That
country music’s akin.

There’s
Luke the bass guitarist,

Who
is all slap, pick and tickle,

There’s
nothing about his bass playing,

That
anyone would call fickle.

And
I guess that leaves Geoffrey,

Who,
although whispering, isn’t Jack,

He
plays the digital, electrical washboard,

That
is, until his Mum wants it back.

So
sit right back and take it in,

We’ll
say only this to you,

If
you reckon it’s hard to listen to once,

We’ve
had to rehearse, God knows

how
many times, through.

G Sullivan (C) March 2003

Poem
27

Lewitzka’s
Passion

Down the way at a harbour named
Victor,

Where God Himself has painted a
picture,

There lived a passionate, artistic
man

With brush and pallet poised in
hand.

To bluffs, valleys, cliffs and
creeks,

Country tracks and every wave-washed
beach,

Lewitzka pursued his quest and
vision,

Attacking each subject as his
personal mission.

Two days a week, he’d be
transfixed,

Then return to his studio where he
would mix,

With budding artists, buyers and
browsers,

Mis-guided tourists and cultural
wowsers.

The latter sapped his energy and
passion,

While selling his art, to get the
cash in.

Until one day it finally snapped,

The artistic flair was no longer
trapped.

Out to the valleys, creeks and dams,

Stormed this now un-caged,
paint-armed man.

No tree was safe, no horizon beyond
reach,

No canvas could hold the style now
unleashed.

Every branch, rock and hidden chasm,

Was painted upon with enthusiasm.

Kangaroos’ joeys and emu’s knees

Were captured and painted with
admirable ease.

For seven long days, even into the
night,

Lewitzka
stroked and dabbed with might.

Until
at last God could take no more,

He
spoke to Terry, telling him what He had in store.

“My
son,” He said, “You’ve painted beyond your limit,

You're
supposed to paint what your canvas can keep within it.

Instead
you’ve chased my very own creatures,

Painted
their habitat and even their features.”

Now
God had decided, with great deliberation,

How
to share Terry’s skill, with the rest of the nation.

“For
your overkill,” He said, “There is a solution.

I’ll
tell you what you’ll do for restitution.”

“Go
back to your studio with insight and ability,

And
teach all who enter, with the utmost civility.

Even
those whom you once considered a pest,

They
now shall be, the most to be blessed.”

And
so today and forever more,

Terry
is smiling, chatting is no chore.

School
kids and groups through the door are filing,

Because
Lewitzka now knows, that God too, is smiling!

G
Sullivan23/02/2003 (c)

Poem 26

A
LOO [WD] CONVERSATION

The sound of country music
rang down town in old Peel street,
While once again I set up camp, amid the throbbing beat
Of guitars, drums and didg'ridoos beside Frank Turton's chooks,
To share with folk my love of verse and sell my tapes and books.

Then strike me pink old nature called, so had to slip away,
And being air-conditioned like Grace Bros. saved the day.
The toilet there was unisex, but thought I was alone,
When to my right I heard a ring ... a flam'in mobile phone.

Some voice then answered, "Campware here. Oh hello Miss
McBride."
When stone the crows ... another ring ... but from my left hand side.
A woman's voice said, "Hosiery, Miss Makim, how'd you do,"
And there I was perched on the throne, caught right between the two.

It's really hard to concentrate with all that in your ear,
In fact I had to come to grips with why I'd come in here.
The conversations going on both had a diff'rent theme,
Which had my mind a wee bit tossed, confusion reigned supreme.

"And do we have some knickers which would match the bras - in
black?"
"Of course they've got the bottoms in and zip up front and back."
"You want some with elastic in, but something that will last.."
"We have a range that slip up quick and come down just as fast."

Then as I heard the cisterns flush, I thought ... hell what a pain;
Transacting business in the loo can really be a drain.
I reached out for some toilet roll to wrap up why I came,
When spare me days 'twas nothing there, but cardboard roll and frame.

What was a bloke to do I thought, I'm stuck here all alone,
When suddenly it crossed my mind ... I'd brought my mobile phone.
I dialled the information line to seek the number out,
Then figured I'd ring toiletry, they'd have some rolls no doubt.

But when I punched the numbers in I heard a ring near by.
That's strange, I thought, then heard a voice say, "Toiletry, it's Di."
"Oh Di," I said, "it's Mervyn here, I'm stuck here in your
store,
I'm in your loo and out of rolls so could you bring some more."

There was a sudden silence for the phone went kind of dead,
But somewhere close I heard a scream as some sweet voice then said,
"Hey Merv I'd like to help you out, but sweetheart this is true,
You see I'm only two doors down and out of paper too."Merv Webster (c)
The Goondiwindi Grey

Poem
25

THE
RELUCTANT BOOT SCOOTER

I
'spose you've heard of Tamworth and the shindig there each year,

Where
country music reigns supreme and all it's stars appear.

They're
in the pubs and all the clubs and arcades 'round the town

And
Peel Street is just full of pics all strumming up and down.

In
years of late another breed of artists have appeared,

Bush
Poets with their rhyming verse, who are now quite revered.

The
Longyard and Imperial pubs and Leagues Club host a few,

While
golf and bowls clubs house more mobs and Peel street has them too.

It
happens that I'm one of them and have for six straight years

Performed
to folk my style of verse; the laughter and the tears.

You
make them cry, you make them laugh, you keep your tales true blue;

For
that is what the folk demand, be Aussie through and through.

Most
folk they see us poets as the ocker type of bloke

And
know we see line dancing as some kind of flamin' joke.

They
come to Tamworth ev'ry year and verge on the main street.

These
hordes of blokes and sheilas with their fancy prancin' feet.

They're
simply ev'ry shape and size, no two frames look the same,

With
fancy shirt's embroided with the place from whence they came.

They
tuck their thumbs behind their belts then line up in a row,

And
when the music kicks on in they boot scoot to and fro.

Each
year they have this ritual, which really is a bore;

They
try to break the record they procured the year before.

Like
locusts they assemble and I watch them with disdain

'Cause
surely they've got buckley's chance of doing it again.

But
somehow they have done it and you can't help but admire,

The
pluck of these boot scootin' folk ... they never seem to tire.

This
year the faithful came again though couldn't help but doubt,

No
matter how they wanted to, their run of luck was out.

The
M.C. kept on calling out, "All register now please.

If
we don't keep the record folks it could go overseas."

The
comment cut just like a knife. I thought, you man or mouse?

'Cause,
what if they were just one short? You'd really feel a louse.

The
more the M.C. made his plea the more it gnawed at me,

Until
I cracked and ran on up and paid the flamin' fee.

I
stuck my ticket on my shirt and joined the middle row

And
wished they'd kick the music off and get on with the show.

My
biggest fear was if my mates were watching in the crowd.

They'd
never let me live it down. The M.C. cried out loud.

"It's
time folks," and the music played. I thought I'd take a punt

And
pranced along by following the tall chick there in front.

Then
when the music fin'lly stopped I made a quick retreat,

Relieved
that I had not been seen boot scootin' in the street.

We
broke the record once again and felt real good deep down,

But
please don't tell me poet mates they'd run me out of town.

Bush
Poets Chris and The Grey (c)

FOOTNOTE:

Each year
as I've sat in front of Grace Bros. Store at the Tamworth Country

Music
Festival, performing our show and selling our product, I have observed

the ritual
of bootscooters gathering in Peel street to break the record for

the largest
number of bootscooters gathered in one place. A record they have

broken
annually for some years now in the Guinness Book of Records. Each

year I have
grappled with the thought - what if they were short by one? - so

I had to
tell the story.

Poem
24

:"The
Piker from Pikers Creek".

This
story is true I’m telling you,
Of a proud wild beast from the bush,
A tale of a Bullock bred out in the hills,
By the banks of old Pikers Creek.

He was tall
and lean and he sure looked mean,
Just standing there alone,
With his hips sticking out from his bony frame,
And his eye’s flashing wild and game,

I was taken a ‘back by the hight of his back,
And the size of his four large feet,
I knew this fella would be hard to beat,
As he stood there looking at me.

He appeared
to me to be wild and free,
Since the day he was branded small,
A scar on his hip from a scratch with a stick,
Or a fight with a bull In the bush.

The
coachers were near so I figured it fair,
To chase him on down to the mob,
With a flick of my wrist and a crack of the whip;
I set my old horse to a jog.

He moved
from the trees to where he could see,
The cattle the stockmen and me,
Moving along with an ambling gait,
The pikers tail stretched long and straight.

As he
entered the mob he made a sound like a sob,
Like to say this was the end,
Then he thought of his home on pikers bend,
Where the hills rise up on high.

With a toss of his head and his eye’s flashing red,
He charged through the herd like a storm,
As he cleared the ground you could hear the sounds,
Of his hooves kicking stone’s all around,

Dolphin my
horse was but slight built of frame,
No match for this bullock so tall,
We pushed on his shoulder it felt like a boulder,
Stuck firmly in the ground.

My boss
yelled to me because he could see,
The piker had one the first round,
What shall we do he’s to tall for you,
He shouted with language so blue.

There’s one thing to do and that’s chase him anew,
Till he tire’s and slows right down,
Then I’ll hold onto his tail and hope I don’t fail,
To pull him down to the ground.

With luck
he’ll trip, fall down and flip,
To his side on the stony ground,
Then I’ll tie him up neat by his hindquarter feet,
Till you bring the coachers on down.

I took hold
of his tail jumped down and hailed,
And the piker turned his head,
Then he crossed his front legs as I hoped he would,
And came right down where he stood.

With a
flourish and a flair I sailed through the air,
His tail slipped through my hands,
Down over the bank of old piker’s creek,
I flew and fell to the sand.

Shaking all
over I climbed up and over,
The bank to the piker’s prone form,
Then tied him up neat by his hindquarter feet,
To wait for the coachers and men.

For three
days and nights he sulked in his plight,
As he wandered the cattle yard grounds,
Then he heard the sounds as the road train came down,
To take him on in to town.

With a sigh and a
blubber his legs turned to rubber,
The piker fell prone to the ground,
One final sigh and a twitch of his eye’s,
And the piker lay dead on the ground.